Jun 16

The Rich and (In)famous

Being able to travel is one privilege I never take for granted. As a writer, everywhere I go, I try to keep my eyes open for something unique. What better place to find material than a crowded airport? You never know who you’ll bump into.

The day after we attended the 141st Kentucky Derby, my husband, Greg, and I were shuttled from our downtown Louisville hotel back to the city’s international airport. We arrived at our terminal to check our bags curb-side and saw a lone skycap finishing with a young lady.

While waiting for him to assist us, I noticed a small group of people gathered outside of an SUV just beyond the skycap station. They caught my attention because they didn’t look like family sending one of their beloved off on a trip. There weren’t hugs or tears as they said goodbye to one another. The interaction was professional as each of the individuals shook hands and smiled pleasantly. Most curiously, the collective was made of four armed and uniformed police officers, a plainclothesman sporting a weapon and a badge, a man dressed in business-casual attire, and another gentleman wearing a very expensive looking suit. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

I first speculated that the plainclothesman was a highly ranked police official, had come in for Derby, and was on his way home. Then, I thought that maybe someone famous was still in the SUV, but I couldn’t see anyone else. My husband offered an equally likely scenario: “Maybe they’re transporting a criminal.”

Hoping to uncover the real story, I whispered to the skycap, “Who are those people?”

The skycap, who looked to be middle-aged like me, replied quietly, “They’re with Neno, the Rapper.”

As if I now perfectly understood the magnitude of this musician’s reputation, I nodded my head in agreement but replied, “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I, dear,” he admitted as he shook his head side to side. “Neither have I.”

Greg generally has no interest in hobnobbing with the rich and famous, so we didn’t spend our time lingering and hoping to catch a glimpse of Neno. We kept to our normal airport routine—cleared security, browsed through a few stores, and eventually got in line at Starbucks. To our surprise, we ended up right behind the crowd of officers we had seen earlier.

The entourage now surrounded and closely guarded an attractive man I did not recognize but assumed was Neno. He was dressed casually in dark clothes and a jacket, wore a baseball cap, and was quiet when he spoke. He didn’t seem preoccupied with drawing attention to himself. I got the impression that if women would leave him alone, he’d likely get through the airport without being bothered by more than speculative whispers and stares.

A barista was smitten. She stepped from behind the counter and asked Neno if he would pose for a picture with her.

A moment later, a woman older than me took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the rapper as he smiled for her. I’m guessing that she couldn’t have known, anymore than I did, exactly who he was.

The excited reactions of the other women made me question whether or not I was missing out on a brush with greatness. I conceded that a photo with the celebrity could be something to literally write home about. “Okay then,” I muttered out loud and thought, “Why not?”

Ne-Yo and Kelly

What’s not to love about Non-Fiction?

I approached Neno and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a selfie with me. He was gracious and cool as he leaned in close to me and flashed a peace sign towards the camera. I couldn’t pretend to be a big fan, shower him with accolades, or carry on much of a conversation, so I simply thanked him and wished him a safe flight.

A moment later, Neno and his protective huddle walked away and business at Starbucks tried to return to normal. I placed my order and received it—incorrectly filled.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to calm down,” said Starbucks Girl.

“It’s OK,” I replied. “You’ve got googly eyes. I understand.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the starstruck young lady work to regain focus on her job. She successfully processed a correct order for me, and I strolled off to Google who this Neno could be.

I searched online sites through the convenient but tiny view afforded by my iPhone 5s. What I found was deplorable. Matthew Best, aka Neno the Rapper, had been arrested in 2013 in New York City’s biggest gun bust. His activities and his music lyrics reflected a parent’s nightmare—full of foul language, drug references, and disrespect.

Maybe I had misinterpreted Neno’s hand gesture in the selfie. What I thought was a peace sign could have been a defiant and crude way of flipping me off. His smooth smile masking truer intentions?

It seemed that my husband may have been right after all: the officers were transporting a criminal.

I was embarrassed that there were witnesses who had seen three generations of women make this guy out to be someone special. I couldn’t understand why Starbucks Girl was so enamoured with Neno that, after our paparazzi moments, she was still frazzled and had gotten my order wrong. At the time, her behavior was endearing. But now, knowing Neno’s background, I couldn’t accept that the girl was blushing over this gangster-type. What did she admire about him? Had he been falsely accused? Acquitted and on his way to testify against others? In my own brief encounter with him, Neno was polite and charismatic, not at all characteristic of the man splattered on nymag.com and other websites. He must have reformed from his sinister ways. I had to go back to Starbucks Girl for answers.

The line was now longer, and it appeared that the girl had regained her composure. She was too busy to confront, so I talked with one of her co-workers.

Going with a direct approach (who was I kidding, anyway?), I asked the young man: “Can you tell me what you know about the celebrity who came through here a little while ago?”

I learned that I had made a big, big mistake. The man that we ladies had posed with wasn’t the notorious thug, Neno the Rapper. He was Ne-Yo, the award-winning Rhythm and Blues singer.

Ne-Yo is associated with other huge personalities: Rihanna, Cèline Dion, Kanye West, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson and more, lots more. He starred in Red Tails with Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding Jr. and appeared on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” He sang on “Good Morning America” and “Live with Kelly and Michael.” He’s a popular artist who shares stories through his music lyrics.

I had come face to face with Who’s Who in Hollywood but had no idea who he was.

I looked up Ne-Yo’s latest album, Non-Fiction, on iTunes, and didn’t listen for long. Frankly, his sexually explicit subject matter and lyrics are far too liberal for my conservative nature. This celebrity sighting, however, reminded me of the critical need to verify facts when telling a true story.  I decided to leave the heartthrob to the younger or more impressionable ladies and nearly admitted to my husband that he was right—some things are better left at the curb.

Jun 15

Snow Bunny

Learning to downhill ski all began with a $15 high school birthday present. A friend and I had seen a skiing movie and it seemed so easy, gliding down snowy slopes and carving turns. We needed to get our hands on the equipment and teach ourselves how to slide down hills. What could be simpler? We were soon wandering the floors of a downtown sporting goods store.  

New ski equipment was appallingly expensive, but we found used wooden rental skis for sale at $15 a pair. The ski bindings were called Ski-free, with metal cables and springs to hold ski boots in place against a swiveling toe-plate. We would have to guess how to adjust them. In theory, when a ski twisted, sliding downhill, a spring-loaded part rotated to one side and released the ski boot instead of breaking an ankle. We were now snow-bunnies, but needed poles. I found a pair so short the grips only came to my waist, not knowing they were sized for six-year-olds. I couldn’t afford real ski boots, but World War II movies showed soldiers skiing down mountains with heavy packs and weapons. Since they wore combat boots, why not install toe clips on old ill-fitting combat boots I already had? Today, a single ski ticket and lesson cost more than my total outlay. 

Determined to learn to ski as soon as the snow flew, I enrolled in the first Detroit Free Press Beginners Ski School. It was free to anyone who found their way to a now-defunct ski area called Mount Dryden. In the parking lot, just before the 7:00 p.m. lesson was to start, I discovered a binding so loose a critical ball-bearing had fallen out and was lost. I was about to miss my first lesson unless I fixed it. Rummaging in the gravel, I found a tiny round stone and inserted it in place of the ball-bearing. Reassembling the binding, I didn’t realize I had effectively locked it in position. Instead of releasing normally, I would snap an ankle as easily as a Sunday dinner chicken leg if I fell. Carrying my now-almost-lethal skis to the top of the beginner’s slope, I fastened the combat boots on and joined eight other participants.  

The crisp evening was enchanting, snowy slopes sparkling in Mount Dryden’s arc lights. So this was what downhill skiing was like. How wonderful watching real skiers swoop and swoosh past, and we all hoped to be doing the same in an hour. Our official ski instructor glided over and did a double-take inspecting my strange equipment. Since everyone had signed a waiver absolving the Free Press if anything went wrong, he shrugged and slid a short distance below before showing us how to align our skis in a basic ‘snow-plow’ position. We all leaned forward, putting our weight through our boots into our ski edges, but mine didn’t seem to work very well. A snow-plow maneuver is the first and simplest method of controlling speed and direction we were supposed to learn.   

Each of us slid gently forward a few yards before stopping, again forming a line. Everyone with the right equipment had no problem and turned expectant gazes on the last one in line, me, having arrived a few minutes after my parking lot repair. They didn’t have much time to watch because without any structure in my combat boots, I couldn’t transfer any weight into the ski edges. Once I began sliding toward the group, I had no control. Even with the skis in proper position, I couldn’t turn, slow down, or even stop. This may explain why ski schools are no longer conducted at seemingly the top of the tallest hill in a ski complex. I flew past both instructor and open-mouthed group with a yell, accelerating over the edge and down Mount Dryden’s steepest slope.  

It was a hell of a ride and why I never fell half-way down and broke something, I have no idea but I must have been traveling 50 mph at the bottom when I ran out of Mount Dryden’s well-groomed artificial snow. In fact, I ran out of Mount Dryden. Understanding I had probably finished my first and last ski lesson, still traveling at a terrific pace, I flew between the last hay bales and arc lights before exploring Lapeer County’s interesting countryside in total darkness.  

With no way to stop, other than falling and breaking something, I hoped I wouldn’t run into a fence or a tree large enough to break me in two. I sincerely doubt management thought any skiers would find themselves out beyond their property line. Unfortunately, that left a frozen swamp facing me, mostly underbrush, cattails, saplings, and rough-plowed field, to stop an out-of-control snow-bunny. I was far beyond a lot of it when I finally somersaulted in a tumbling heap of skis and poles.   

I lay there, head spinning, ears buzzing. Miraculously, nothing was broken or sprained, just a few bits of torn clothing to show for my adventure. Still wondering what happened, I lay there deciding I must now be a downhill skier since I was now downhill and had begun by wearing skis. So it had been a successful evening after all. I retrieved everything in total darkness and began the climb back to civilization, managing to skirt both ski-instructor and group on the way back.  

When I got to the car, I discovered the locked-together Ski-free binding was, sure enough, still locked together. Perhaps, I decided, I should break down and get some real ski boots and bindings before trying again.

Jun 10

Idea Spring

shower

I had a thought about a story I’m working on, it just happened to be while I was in the shower. Of course, it was gone before I could write it down, which is as frustrating as an itch I just can’t quite reach. It’s the one place not conducive to paper, pencil, a computer, or recording device.

What’s funny is most authors have these moments. Kimberly Kincaid, author of the upcoming book Reckless, A Rescue Squad Novel, which you can pre-order at Amazon.com, recently shared one of her own on Facebook. She was in line at a big-box convenience store and saw they had double sided bra tape by the register and a great way to deal with a sex scene popped into her head and she had to record her musings. Messaging back and forth with her this morning, she clarified, “…it made me think how funny it would be if a heroine was taped into a dress when she really wanted it off…” In the checkout line, she started furiously whispering the scene into her phone. If you want to read how the scene turned out you’ll have to keep your eyes peeled for the second book in A Rescue Squad Novel series, her current W.I.P.

Other places I’ve had ideas spark are in my car. I can use my phone to record the idea but only while at a red light, and I pray the idea doesn’t flit out of my head before that happens. The doctor’s office is another, which can be embarrassing, since it is usually pretty quiet and my ideas can be pretty steamy in the romance department. Most of my ideas spring open while I’m at the bookstore when I’m actually getting some quality ideas down.

Because I’ve been concentrating on my next W.I.P. I’ve not had time for anything else. Unfortunately, that means the piece, be it fiction or non-fiction, I would have written for this post is still up in my head. Therefore, I thought I’d ask a question instead:

What are the top five places, not including in front of your computer, where your writing ideas spring?

 

Jun 08

One Part Genesis, One Part Darwin and One Part Machiavelli

Although I might plan to relax or sleep, writing ideas germinate at the oddest times. I jot a note on Monday to write about one topic. Tuesday counters with a new subject or two. Wednesday offers three more choices. After the month passes, I have pages of new ideas for short stories, posts, and even novel worthy topics. The difficulty comes in choosing and debating the strength of each idea.

A genesis process begins before each project. An idea fragment initiates a chain reaction. In true Genesis fashion, here’s what happens to an idea for something as simple as a blog post.

The Paris Review tweets a 1980s interview with Raymond Carver which begat
rereading “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” which begat
watching Birdman and the use of Carver in the movie which begat
finding other films directed by Alejandro G. Inarritu which begat
studying Inarritu’s co-writers and the two years to write the script which begat
researching cinematography for a one-shot narrative which begat
discussing the similarities between Birdman and a play which begat
outlining theme connections between Carver’s story and the film which begat
finding examples of magical realism . . .

Now Darwin, the scientist whose name symbolizes survival of the fittest, comes into play. The possibilities for the Carver idea within what I call my “genesis stage” are numerous. I keep this idea, and who knows, it might be a post on this blog in the future. The subject interests me much more than one of my other ideas about the financial funding of literary magazines. Although valuation practices and financial topics are potential dinner conversation at my table, the rest of the world might be in REM sleep after appetizers. Unless a topic can evolve, the idea turns cold, extinct and not fit to survive in my black and white world of words.

As the deadline approaches, I enter the “Machiavellian stage” of decision making. In the example of this blog post, three ideas remain – the Carver Birdman Connection (CBC), Writing of Mom (MOM), and Genesis, Darwin and Machiavelli (GDM). Now, my brain wrestles with the competing ideas.

CBC: There’s research into my idea. But how will it hold together?
MOM: Remember mother’s birthday is on the post date.
GDM: There’s not much time. The MOM topic is a bit too sentimental.
MOM: What about “writing secrets” kept from mom?
CBC: That could be rich.
GDM: MOM is too fluffy for June. That’s an August topic.
CBC: I suppose it is between GDM and me. I have a wealth of material.
GDM: Carver-Birdman is too heavy for a June post.
CBC: My topic is fascinating. It could be more than a blog post.
GDM: You’re right, it’s too big for a blog post. Discussion over. Now write.

With the argument settled, the post topic practically writes itself. Tomorrow begins a new round of genesis, Darwinism and Machiavellian debate over which story to finish or whether it’s time to return to the manuscripts.

Jun 07

In the Beginning – Make It Up

“The scariest moment is always just before you start.” – Stephen King

What causes a writer to stare uncertainly at the blank white page: lack of unique ideas, not sure of how to start a powerful memoir, or even the most effective way to begin a thriller?

“Story Starters” by Lou Willett Stanek, PhD. has some excellent ideas to help jump start your creative juices. Chapter 8 suggests using found objects as a story starter. There could be a fascinating story in an old letter found hidden in a drawer liner, in the words of a secret diary, in the gruff sounding chime of a grandfather clock, in the glass angel for the top of a Christmas tree, or in a bronzed baby shoe. These objects could be the subject of a short story, the beginning of a novel, or could trigger a long lost memory to begin your memoir.

Chapter 5 talks of the dangers of using real-life events or people. Stanek’s advice for fiction writers is to “Make it up.” Using real-life for your stories can be boring (people already know the true story), libelous (someone could sue you for writing about them), or even didactic (people don’t like being lectured to).

If you want to write about real-life events or people, “Make it up.” Alter the premise of the story, switch the genders of the protagonists, select a different location, or change the outcome of the situation.

Keeping a Journal of Ideas is a common suggestion for writers. This journal is not a diary of what you had for lunch but what you see, hear, smell, taste, or touch that might trigger a memory or idea that could be developed. Filling your journal with descriptions of places you’ve visited, unusual names of people, or paraphrasing a conversation you’ve overheard could help you begin a story. Then the next time you find yourself staring at that blank white page, open up your Journal of Ideas and pick one.

What suggestions do you have to for dealing with the dreaded blank white page?